Let It Be Me by Becky Wade (top young adult novels .TXT) 📕

When she reached the intellectual property suit, she circled the plaintiff’s name. Ian Monroe O’Reilly.

Instantly, recognition clicked. One of her nurses at Magnolia Avenue Hospital had the same surname.

The mysterious Bonnie O’Reilly.

This particular suit had been filed thirty years ago. Ian O’Reilly (age twenty-seven) had accused Jonathan Brookside (also age twenty-seven) of stealing his idea, his technology, and his research and using it to found Gridwork Communications Corporation.

Leah read through the remainder of the document. The case had been tried. Jonathan had not been found liable.

Think, Leah.

A plaintiff named O’Reilly had sued Jonathan Brookside. Two years later, a nurse named O’Reilly had cared for Jonathan Brookside’s daughter on the day of her birth.

O’Reilly was one of the most common American surnames of Irish origin. The fact that Baby Brookside’s nurse shared the same name as a plaintiff who’d sued Jonathan Brookside a few years prior could comfortably be attributed to coincidence.

If everything had proceeded normally from there, had she and Sophie gone home with their rightful parents, suspicion would not be justified. But instead, while a nurse named O’Reilly was on duty, Baby Brookside had been switched with Baby Montgomery.

Under those circumstances, suspicion seemed highly justified.

Tilting back her head, she peered at the crown molding dividing wall from ceiling.

Ian and Jonathan had both been twenty-seven. According to Joyce, Bonnie had been fifty or so at the time of Leah’s birth. It was feasible to think that Bonnie could have been Ian’s mother. Or perhaps his aunt? Cousin?

If Bonnie had been related to the Ian who’d sued Jonathan, then, no doubt, Bonnie was not one of Jonathan’s admirers.

So . . . What?

Bonnie had taken it upon herself to punish Jonathan by swapping his child with someone else’s?

But why? That seemed far too extreme. It was true that the wheels of justice didn’t always turn fairly, yet it looked as if due process had been followed in this case. Ian had had his day in court.

Confounded, Leah Googled Ian O’Reilly on her phone. Several results populated. But just like when she’d hunted for Bonnie, none of these people seemed to be the person she sought. These men weren’t the right age or hadn’t lived in Georgia.

When she finished reading through the rest of the paperwork, she returned to the attendant, who looked up inquiringly.

“I’m interested in accessing a birth certificate,” she told him. “Can you recommend how to go about that?” If she could find Ian O’Reilly’s birth certificate, she’d learn his mother’s name, his father’s name, his place of birth, and more that might help her locate him.

“Are you the person named on the birth certificate?”

“I’m not.”

“Are you a primary family member of the person named?”

“I’m not.”

“Sorry, but those are the only two categories qualified to request birth certificates.”

“Ah. I see.”

“You can get a look at some of the information provided on birth certificates through census records.”

“How long after a census is taken is it released to the public?”

“Seventy-two years.”

“Thank you.”

Leah walked toward her parking space. Ian O’Reilly wouldn’t have been born seventy-two years ago, so the census would be no help. Bonnie O’Reilly, however, likely would have been born by then if Joyce had estimated her age accurately.

As soon as she settled behind the wheel of her Honda, she logged into YourHeritage.com. She clicked on the tab for census records and began typing in Bonnie’s last name—

Stopped.

Joyce had said that Bonnie was a single mother when they worked together. But if Bonnie had been married back when she’d had her child . . . then O’Reilly was likely Bonnie’s married name. When the census was taken more than seven decades ago, Bonnie would have been a girl. Her last name would not have been O’Reilly. Her last name would have been her maiden name.

Still, it was worth a shot to search for census records for Bonnie O’Reilly. Maybe Bonnie had never married. Or maybe she had, but had kept her maiden name all her life.

Leah filled in the scant information she knew about Bonnie and ran a search for census records pertaining to her.

No promising matches whatsoever.

She lowered the phone to her lap with a frustrated exhale.

The second Sebastian entered the coffee shop and saw Leah, he knew something was wrong.

His workday had passed incredibly slowly because he’d looked at his watch every few minutes to see how many hours remained until his afternoon break and the chance to see Leah. Now he was finally here. She sat at a small table inside the crowded interior, two cups of coffee before her, talking to someone on her phone. Her eyes blazed accusation at him.

A quicksand sensation overtook his chest. A sinking down, down, down.

“I see,” she said to the caller. “Thank you very much for your time.” A pause. “All the best.” Another pause. “Good-bye.”

She pushed her phone into her purse and frowned. Then she carried her cup from the shop. He followed, throwing away his drink when he passed the trash can because, if she was mad at him—which she was—then he definitely couldn’t stomach coffee.

She marched into the mouth of a nearby alley, her shoulders stiff beneath the same bright pink sweater she’d worn the day of the farmers market. Brick buildings, dumpsters, and weeds lined the sides of the alley. Above, white clouds that looked like whipped cream blocked the sun.

They faced each other. Her, beautiful. Him, standing very still in his pale blue business shirt and gray suit pants. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Her eyebrows drew together. “While I was waiting for you, I called the dean of the fine arts school at Georgia Southern to thank him for his interest in Dylan. He was very cordial. During our conversation I asked him how Dylan’s drawings had come to his attention. He told me that his favorite niece’s little boy had been born with a hole in his heart, and that Dr. Grant at the Clinic for Pediatric and Congenital Heart Diseases had performed a fabulously successful surgery. Dylan was